Chapter Thirty
Farah
The ship had quieted, but it was not the quiet of peace.
It was the kind that came after blood had been spilled—thick, watchful, waiting for something else to go wrong.
The deck above still groaned beneath the weight of repairs, sailors shouting low to one another as they patched torn sails and scrubbed away what the sea had not already claimed.
The scent of salt could not mask the iron tang of death that lingered in the wood, soaked deep into the grain.
Even below deck, in the narrow corridors lit by swaying lanterns, Farah could feel it pressing in around her.
War had followed them from Hespali.
And now it had found them at sea.
Farah moved through the corridors of the ship with steady steps, though her body still ached from the battle.
Smoke and black flame had taken their toll, leaving her limbs heavy, her veins humming faintly with the remnants of magic.
Her knuckles were raw, her ribs bruised, and yet none of it slowed her now. Pain was familiar. Predictable.
What waited at the end of the corridor was not.
The captured captain.
A man who had stood on the opposing deck with a blade in hand and a grin too eager for death. A man who had not fled when Kire’s storms tore through his fleet. A man who had watched Farah’s flames crawl across his crew and had not once looked away.
He knew something.
And Farah intended to take it from him.
Two guards stood outside the small brig, their postures rigid as she approached. They straightened further at the sight of her, exchanging a brief glance before stepping aside without question.
“Has he said anything?” Farah asked, her voice low.
“No, Princess,” one of them replied. “Not a word since we bound him.”
Farah nodded once. That would change.
It always did.
She pushed open the door. The room beyond was small, barely more than a storage cell repurposed into a holding space.
Chains hung from the walls, rusted from years of salt air, though the ones binding the man in the center were newer, iron biting into his wrists where they were fastened above his head.
A single lantern burned on a hook, casting long, warped shadows across the stone floor.
For a moment, Farah simply stood in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust, letting the silence settle. Then something in her chest tightened. The man’s head hung forward, chin nearly to his chest. His dark hair clung damply to his face, obscuring most of his features, but his body—it was too still.
Farah stepped forward slowly, each footfall deliberate against the stone. The faint creak of the ship above seemed louder here, the lantern flame flickering as if disturbed by something unseen.
“Look at me,” she said, voice sharper now.
No response.
Irritation flared, quick and instinctive. She reached out, gripping his jaw and forcing his head back and froze. His eyes were open. Clouded. Empty.
A thin, dark line trailed from the corner of his mouth, cutting down across his chin and disappearing into the collar of his torn shirt. The smell hit her a second later—bitter, acrid, unmistakable. A poison she knew all too well. Not really a poison at all. A viper’s venom.
Farah released him as if he burned, stepping back. Her pulse kicked hard against her ribs, every instinct sharpening at once.
“No,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. This was not possible.
He had been alive when they brought him aboard. Bound. Watched. There had been no moment for weakness, no chance for him to slip something past them—unless he hadn’t brought it himself. Someone had given it to him.
Farah’s gaze snapped to the door. “Get in here,” she called, voice cutting through the corridor like a blade.
The guards rushed in at once, their expressions shifting from alert to uneasy as they took in the scene.
“He’s dead,” one of them said unnecessarily.
Farah’s eyes darkened. “I can see that.”
She stepped closer again, crouching now, her attention fixed on the man’s lips, the residue there, the faint staining of his teeth. It had worked too quickly—too cleanly.
“He didn’t do this himself,” she said finally, rising to her feet.
The guards exchanged another glance. “Princess?”
“He was bound,” Farah continued, her tone colder now, more controlled. “Watched. And yet he dies before I can question him?” Her gaze flicked between them, sharp enough to cut. “Either it was one of you…” Neither man spoke. “Or you are both incompetent and someone else was here.”
Farah turned away from them, pacing once across the small space, her thoughts spiraling. The battle, the chaos, the wounded being tended, the dead being counted—it would have been easy. Too easy. A single moment where no one was watching closely enough.
A single person moving where they should not have been. Her stomach twisted.
“They’re on this ship,” she muttered.
Not a question. A fact. The lantern flickered again, the flame bending as if in agreement. She of all people would know the markings of a spy.
Farah exhaled slowly, steadying herself, though the tension in her chest only tightened further. Her mind flickered through faces—crew members, soldiers, even those closest to her. Trust had always been a fragile thing in her world, easily broken, rarely given freely.
And now it felt like a weapon turned inward.
She thought of Chloe. Of the fleet. Of Nexos waiting on the horizon, unaware that danger had already slipped aboard their ships.
“We tell no one,” Farah said suddenly, turning back to the guards.
They stiffened. “Princess?”
“Not yet.” Her voice was firm now, commanding. “If there is a spy among us, panic will only drive them deeper into hiding.”
Or force them to act again. To kill again.
Farah glanced once more at the body, at the lifeless eyes staring at nothing, and felt something cold settle deep in her bones. This was no longer just a war fought on open seas. It had crept into the shadows. Into whispers. Into the space between trust and betrayal.
“We watch,” she continued, quieter now. “We listen. And when they make their next move”—her lips curved faintly, though they held no warmth—“we’ll be ready.”
Outside, the ship groaned as it cut through the dark waters, carrying them all—hunters and hunted—toward a war that had already begun.